


censer

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Binge Drinking, Developing Relationship, Drinking to Cope, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, F/M, Inappropriate Erections, Lapdance, Mild Smut, mentor/mentee relationship, of like thousands of years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: It was not the first time he had seen Pangara dance. So he had known she had musicality, power; she’d spoken of the traditions of dance in her clan. Shown him some of what had survived.But this… this confidence. Intimacy. It was the first time he had seen her dance likethis.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel/Female Inquisitor, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Kudos: 29





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The first time she danced for him, they were alone. And he was unprepared, and drunk on wine and regrets, and he leaned back — sprawled, really — in the chair in front of the fire in her quarters. Yarn mountained around in baskets of all sizes. The brown fur of the rug was warm under his toes. Something — a knitting needle, he ventured to guess — dug into his hip, but he didn’t dare move.

He couldn’t move because he did not want to distract her. Because he knew, instinctively, that moving would pull her to him, like a hunter circling close to shifting prey.

And he couldn’t have her drawn to him. He couldn’t watch her slink up to him on her hands and knees, have her climb up his lap, feel her pressing her hands up his thighs. He couldn’t watch her toss her head; if she looked up at him, if her eyes met his… if she did that, he would lunge… 

He fought just such an urge now as she pressed her ass, sultry, snake-like, up and back until she was upright, her knees spread far apart, her feet touching in a point, her toes curling and overlapping one another. She pressed her hips forward, then she dropped them to one side, and pulled them back: _swivel, circle, thrust,_ while her hands played over her thighs. They bunched in her shirt to tease glimpses of her stomach. They pushed meaningfully over the rise of her breasts; she explored her curves, undulating, her body always in motion: becoming motion. He closed his mouth. She moved however she wished, taking only occasional queues from the music drifting up from the training yard. Solas heard his heart drumming with the intoxicating rhythm of her body: circling, dizzying, slow — sensual.

It was not the first time he had seen Pangara dance. So he had known she had musicality, power; she’d spoken of the traditions of dance in her clan. Shown him some of what had survived. 

But this… this confidence. Intimacy. It was the first time he had seen her dance like _this._

Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t looked at him since she had first uncurled on the pelt, dragging her slow touch. She didn’t seem to care whether he stayed or went. He clenched the rim of his cup, hanging empty from the tips of his fingers. His throat felt dry. He cast his mind back furiously, his brow hot, his other fist clenched on his knee, trying to think. But nothing that he could bring to mind had taken place to prompt this. To prompt _this._

Just the music, swaying melancholy in the night, a few faint notes curling up with the draft.

She gathered her short hair in her hands and twisted her fingers. Thrusting up, she tugged her head back to expose her neck. Her shirt pulled up as she raised her arms, teasing the pale line of her belly in the firelight again.

When he remembered to breath again it was a loud, desperate gulp for air, embarrassing only because she noticed. Her lip twitched in just the barest acknowledgement. He swallowed. Then he lost sight of her face as she extended her arm overhead and dipped back, back… back, her hips thrust forward, her soft stomach fully exposed. He hungrily, guiltily traced the length of her arched body with his eyes, poetry comparing her to the arc of the moon, to the hanging willow bough, dying on his tongue as he lost all ability to speak. The cup trembled in his grasp.

Arms reaching, she slid onto the back of her head, feet arching to lift her from the ground and then somehow she was backflipping over one shoulder, fluid. She hunched over her knees. She extended her legs up, out, over, like a fan, or the beat of a butterfly’s wings. Her eyes were still closed, her face peaceful, and he felt his own mounting arousal pressing in his breeches. But he would not interrupt her for the world, for any world.

He could hear it when she breathed in. Her breathes punctuated her form — when twisting, her exhale was loud, when stretching, she breathed in. It felt like she took all the air in the room into her body. He felt himself bulging, felt the restraint of the fabric of his breeches. He tried to steady his breath, tried to close his eyes - but he couldn’t look away from her. His breath came quick, shallow. He realized he almost felt like crying, but the moment he became aware of this his heart iced over and he clenched the fist resting on his knee.

Still, she danced, and he fell in love with everything she was without him. He loved the firmament she traced with her body; the solid weight of her limbs and the atmosphere she set on fire with her breath: in, out, the whole room breathing with her. The night breathing and moving in the slow, hypnotizing ways she moved. She made the fire her echo. She made herself into something older, stranger, more wild than anything that might call itself god.

He watched her dance on her knees, and when she told him to come he did, and he knelt to touch her lips.

Later, when he would take her hand in Val Royeaux, he would put his fingers on her chin. He would shield her moment of self-doubt from the rest of the party (she would not want them to see her cry). 

He would say to her, low and intense, “I have faith in you.”

And she would not know what he really meant. She would not be able to hear his words like a confession, would not remember this conversion, would not see the yearning, hot like worship, in his eyes.

Instead, she would look at the rift in her hand and say, bitterly, “But I don’t.”

But he would remember this, and he would know it was a lie.


End file.
